


The Man Who Sold the Stories (Tribute to Stan Lee)

by Halbereth



Category: Marvel
Genre: Gen, No archive warnings apply EXACTLY, Sort Of, Tribute, but this is about Stan Lee dying, characters are tagged in order of appearance or reference, if you want to know who's who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 22:31:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halbereth/pseuds/Halbereth
Summary: Posted a similar version on Tumblr a few days after Stan Lee died as a tribute. Decided to migrate it over here.It's a short vignette about characters and their creator.





	The Man Who Sold the Stories (Tribute to Stan Lee)

**Author's Note:**

> If you're a Trekkie, you may have read the tribute story “The Man Who Sold the Sky.” It's the first story in _Strange New Worlds_ , basically an anthology of approved Star Trek fanfic. I came across it in high school. "The Man Who Sold the Sky" is a tribute to Gene Roddenberry, the creator of Star Trek. The title is a nod to Heinlein’s novella _The Man who Sold the Moon,_ or more accurately the short story that follows it. In the novella, one man cons, swindles, advertises, hypes, and otherwise convinces humanity to invest in multi-stage rockets and get to the Moon (this came out before we actually had, but a lot of the ideas are correct). In the short story epilogue, he is now a very old tycoon and has never managed to get to space himself. He manages to forge a health certification and get a ride with some kinda goofy-sketchy guys who don't, at first, know who he is. He gets off the spaceship and finally walks on the Moon; the trip has over-stressed his heart, so he sits down and dies there, happy.
> 
> In the Stark Trek story, six very familiar characters appear as an old man--presumably Gene Roddenberry-–lies dying and whisk him off to the future he dreamed about. It moved me even though it’s a very short little story--short enough, in fact, that it only took up three pages of the notebook I copied it out in. (It’s not copyright violation if you do it with a pencil, right?) 
> 
> It stuck with me because that would be a wonderful way to go--to have the people you've invested so much in and that others have also come to love, the symbols of optimism and kindness and the best parts of our nature that you wanted to explore, come and take you away to whatever's next. And Roddenberry isn't the only one whose universe took off like that.
> 
> Here’s a nod to a nod, a tribute in the vein of a tribute.

The old man shifted slightly, drifting back into consciousness. He wasn’t quite sure where he was–-not home, anymore? This was some kind of hospital. But it was oddly quiet, he thought, and there wasn’t the bustle he’d associate with —

There was a quiet wooshing noise followed by a footstep. A door swung closed. "Okay,” a woman’s voice said softly, “coast is clear. Activate.” 

Odd, the old man thought; he knew he’d never heard that voice before, and yet he knew it, knew it as intimately as that of his oldest friends.

There was a beep and another strange sound--then a sharp, bored teenage boy’s voice said, low and urgent, “Wow. Okay, hurry it up. He hasn’t got all day.”

“This has to be done properly,” an older male voice replied. “Opening dimensional portals isn’t an easy thing to do without attracting attention, Johnny.”

“Yeah, whatever, do it faster,” the young voice–-Johnny?–-whispered back. “He really doesn’t look good.”

“He won’t look any better if we don’t do this right,” the older voice said, distant and distracted, with maybe a hit of what would be irritation if the distance weren’t so great.

“Boy’s got a point,” a deeper voice rumbled, surprisingly close to the old man. There was a heavy footstep. He tried to open his eyes, got an impression of brightness and way more space than there ought to be in any normal hospital room. Pretty, thought. But bright. Too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut again and listened.

“We can’t do a thing until I’ve localized the opening for transport,” the older man said, exasperated now.

“Screw that,” the deep voice said. “You’ve got trackers on us all, don'tcha?”

“Yes, but–-”

“But nothin’.” And the old man felt himself being picked up-–amazingly-–like a small child, cradled in absurdly large arms that were oddly rough.

“Hey, hold it!” another voice hissed. This voice was young too, but lacked the petulance of the first one, and seemed to come from above. There was a quick pattering sound as something darted across the ceiling, then a low whistle. A squelching sound, a wet thwap and something landed near the old man’s head. “There.”

“I wasn’t gonna drop ‘im,” the deep voice rumbled, even deeper now that the old man was apparently being held against that large and strangely textured chest.

“No, no, that’s not what I–I made him a pillow, sort of. See?”

“Oh.”

The sound of a door swinging open, more quick footsteps-–lots of them, this time. “Are we too late?” another voice asked, breathless.

“It would be a great tragedy to miss our chance to honor such a valiant man,” another added, a warm and commanding voice with a strange accent.

“Yeah, yeah, guys, it’s fine. You, don’t get angry. They’re still here,” a harsh, slightly annoyed voice said. “Richards.”

“Mm.” (The older, distracted man.)

“So what'cha planning?”

“Extraction.”

“Eloquent as always.”

“Enough bickering,” said a warm but authoritative voice, and the old man felt a wave of calm sweep over him. “He’s awake.”

“He is?” The second young voice was definitely coming from the ceiling.

“Huh.” There were a few steps and then someone patted the old man on the cheek. He opened his eyes. An oddly familiar face was blocking the light. He’d never seen this man before, but he knew him. Of course he did.

He knew all of them.

“Heya shellhead,” he muttered.

“The dimensional window is closing soon,” the dry voice reported from the edge of the room.

There were definitely more people in the room now, far more than a hospital room ought to be able to hold. The old man felt himself smiling.

“What now?” someone asked.

“Well, really,” another person said, “Reed can just pull us all out of here–-or--”

“No.” The calm voice again, someone used to being the voice of reason. “This kind of thing-–it takes an effort of will.”

“Technically–-” the dry voice began.

“Yes, but there is more to this than science,” said the strangely-accented voice. “This depends upon the soul.”

“He’s always shown the way,” said another voice, firm and confident. “Even for those of us who already had a path. It’s the storytellers who really lead. And it’s his choice which way the story goes now.”

“Well, he’d better choose fast. Doesn't look like he's got much time,” said the first young voice urgently.

“You with us, pops?” Something metallic poked the old man’s cheek. “You’ve just gotta say the word. You know how this goes. 'To be spine-tinglingly continued.’”

The old man slitted his eyes open. The light was dazzling now. He couldn’t see anything, and yet he knew exactly who surrounded him.

“Ah, what the hell,” he said. “Excelsior.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read that much in the comics-verse, so I tried to stick with the characters I know he wrote or popularized and felt I could write reasonably well. The Fantastic Four were, by many accounts, what rejuvenated Marvel Comics and brought on the era of superhero teams and the Silver Age of comics, so they took the lead here.


End file.
